


animals

by conglomerade



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest 2020, M/M, Rough Sex, everything is arranged beforehand and completely consensual, is it a very healthy way to cope with life? i'll leave it up to them to mull over, more as a medium for observing the bond/q dynamic than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25044940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conglomerade/pseuds/conglomerade
Summary: Code, puzzles—neat and intricate and precise—give him thrills; being eaten alive isexquisite.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	animals

Q bears it through his teeth, white fingernails tearing into the sheets of his own bed. Trembling legs spread wide, biting savagely down the metallic sting of his own blood, he _takes_ it.

(He understands Bond, that he tends less towards unnecessary cruelty, not unless provoked—and Q’s done plenty of provoking, at all those wraiths that lay sleeping beneath those old stones.)

He _burns_ , from the white-hot core scorching his ribcage to his screaming-raw skin where he ends in serrated metal edges and Bond begins in stiff flesh and _still_ _pushes_.

(Q wants him. He’s the fucking Quartermaster of MI6; he proves the paradoxical existence of non-existence with his persistence in namelessness, in living a face without genuine substance, without respite.)

(Bond takes that from him and pushes. Bond forces the last few shreds of his existence into a steady tone, attenuating any usable information until he’s reduced to _want now—else he’ll lose his fucking mind.)_

(Untamed, Bond is dirty, and Bond is _good_ ; his cock fills him, pulsing with red-hot blood like a naked heart laid bare in open surgery. And for vicious, vicarious seconds—one swallowing down the next to follow, leaving absolutely nothing in between—Q learns what it means to be alive.)

Q scrunches his eyes shut and feels his guts twist, an unattractively pale stomach fluttering rapidly as he takes and _takes_ the intrusion, just barely a man drowning in air. Above him Bond must be murmuring something, syllables indiscernible, but Q’s focus has been long-since shot. Threads tear with inaudible pops between his fingers; choking on his breath, hissing uncontrollably between gritted teeth, Q desperately tries to breathe.

It feels so, so fucking good. Code, puzzles—neat and intricate and precise—give him thrills; being eaten alive is _exquisite_.

" _Fuck me_ ," Q snarls, when nothing moves—he bears down, and the animalistic flash in Bond's eyes is enough to sear a bloody cut across his cheeks, piercing through his mouth in punishment. Bond moves like something feral; balancing precariously on the knife edge of savagery, leaving carefully crafted lacerations that appear shallow and bleed long on Q's pale skin.

His thrusts in are sharp, hard, staccatos on a page of violent music sheets; they burn inside him like raw alcohol tearing crude nail marks down the lining of his throat. Q, half sat-up, his cold headboard pressing awkwardly into his skull, _takes_ it. When that’s not enough, he tears trembling fingers from crumpled sheets and digs them into his own thigh, opening his legs wider with a vicious gasp.

(This isn't atonement, not for a sin he's invited himself.)

Bond shifts the angle; piercing ice-blue eyes locked on his face, he pistons his hips, driving himself in _deeper_. Q shouts; twists away from sudden white-hot pleasure—but barely half a beat later, he’s tightening around the source of the fire, vaguely registering a low groan.

(This is gluttony, and pride; but Q, he needs a release. Anything worth imitating absolution from his greed is enough for the likes of him.)

(007, in his bed, buried deep in his body, making guttural sounds of animals writhing in heat.)

The build doesn’t end; it swells in intensity and magnitude, wave after growing wave, threatening to swallow him down like it did those precious seconds while Bond was pushing inside of him. In rough thrusts, the pain grows muddled into burning pleasure—fire, one to touch and make whole. Feeling—sensation from moving bodies alone—sucks Q into a high he could never replicate with code.

It leaves him breathless.

(Warmth of a body, heady and radiating heat, so very unlike his; vigorous and alive, in his empty bed. What more could he want, selfishly?)

He doesn’t last long like this. He fights it; arches and writhes and makes desperate keens—but his vision is flickering and overstimulated whines spill between his teeth with his inevitable release, feeding 007 his damnable price.

Bond's grip on his thighs are brutal and white as he follows, shuddering warmth inside him. They breathe like they've run from the end of the world, off-sync and selfish and greedy; Bond's hand trembles minutely under the inside of Q’s knee.

(The undersides of his calloused fingers scratch roughly into fragile skin, but Q only breathes. Takes advantage of the moment to force the fill of his lungs back into life; pulls at nothing until he regains substance and gathers his cracked mask of sanity back into a whole with his fingers. Bond never looks directly at him when they’re at this point. He waits: a thousand, then two, three; _three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight_ —)

(Exhale; then familiar, involuntary shudders as the intrusion pulls out, leaving him sore and empty.)

(Once-swallowed seconds are slowly released, and time regains linearity, collecting seconds into minutes and into moments. Bond’s hand steadies.)

(— _nine seven nine three two three eight four six two six_ —)

Only when Bond lets go of his thigh does Q find the bridge of his nose and smile, tightly; with a brief nod and hazy fingers, he peels himself off his own mattress, body grating on his bones like rusting old metal.

For the likes of him, whatever it is that approximates reprieve waits in a cold shower in his master bathroom. He tries not to slip across icy tiles on shaky knees and doesn’t have to linger long to hear the window close shut.

***

(Landing neatly from Q's fire escape, Bond grimaces; the drizzle from the evening earlier has remained on the tarmac, staining his trousers.)

(Q’s run from him again. This isn’t new: many have tossed him once they've touched to what they believe is sufficiency. He's a bit of an addict, that one; not one to be pitied, as Quartermaster, but perhaps, as a man—)

(But Q is not a man; he'd lost that privilege the moment he'd put his foot forward in Six. They live an insubstantial but three-dimensional adult's world, promises as bonds and all that.)

(Q leaves a man unpleasantly wanting. Bond often enjoys sex, both rough or in layers, but with Q, it leaves an odd aftertaste on his tongue, so unlike the weapons Q crafts for him.)

(A shame, that. But Bond does not prod, and neither does Q.)

**Author's Note:**

> (from the Maroon 5 song)


End file.
